


Fa La La Ad Infinitem

by eilonwy



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Adult Draco Malfoy, Adult Hermione Granger, Community: dramione_advent, D/Hr Advent 2019, Diagon Alley, F/M, Fluff and Humor, Harry Potter Epilogue What Epilogue | EWE, Holidays, Post-Hogwarts, Romance, Winter Solstice
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-06
Updated: 2019-11-06
Packaged: 2021-01-23 22:29:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,036
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21327718
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eilonwy/pseuds/eilonwy
Summary: A very enterprising band of house-elves is on a mission.Written for the 2019 D/Hr Advent fest.  My prompt was "carolling house-elves."
Relationships: Hermione Granger/Draco Malfoy
Comments: 50
Kudos: 135
Collections: D/Hr Advent 2019





	Fa La La Ad Infinitem

[](https://www.flickr.com/photos/36691636@N04/49025977091/in/dateposted-public/)

  
  
  
  
  
15 December 2008  
Monday, late afternoon  
  
  
It wasn’t that he disliked music, per se. On the contrary, actually. _Good_ music was generally quite welcome. He even found it uplifting from time to time. When it wasn’t interfering with work, that is – or… well… work.

Draco Malfoy was an avowed workaholic. A man who genuinely enjoyed his creature comforts, he was equally particular about the smallest details in his work environment, both at home and in his office. This was the case right down to the placement of furniture, the noise level (there should be virtually none!), and the amount of natural light allowed through the drapes, even to the fabric and colour of the drapes themselves. He especially despised and had no patience whatsoever for any sort of persistent irritant. 

Which was why, just at the moment, his blood pressure was steadily on the rise. Somewhere in the vast reaches of Malfoy Manor, people were singing. More specifically, house-elves, judging by the high, tinny timbre of their voices. Singing or venting their spleens, Draco couldn’t be sure which. Either way, the sound was torture to his ears.  
  
  


__ _Let us to the high hills go,_  
_Tripping through the frozen snow._  
_Under the full moon we know _  
_The time has come for dancing!_

__

__

_Over hills and over dales,_  
_Find mistletoe and holly trails._  
_Yule log’s brightness never fails._  
_The time has come for dancing!_

  
  
Groaning in frustration, he shoved his fingers into his ears and squeezed his eyes shut. Merlin’s beard, would this caterwauling never cease! It had been going on for at least half an hour. The same holiday ditty, over and over again. Much to his added chagrin, he couldn’t be sure exactly where it was coming from. Sometimes, the echoes of their voices seemed to come from the upper floors. At other times, it sounded more like they were somewhere below stairs, possibly even in the deepest cellars.

Whatever the case, the cacophony was driving him batty. He would have to get out of the house and find somewhere quiet to finish this afternoon’s work. Where he would go, he had no idea. The office wasn’t an option, as a new floor was being installed. And although the installation itself wouldn’t take terribly long to complete, magic being the wondrous thing that it is, the new floor would need some time to settle once installed. No magic could hurry that process along, nor would any feet be permitted to touch its pristine surface for at least a week. This new flooring had been a major investment; Lucius had been adamant, and his word was the law at Malfoy Enterprises. 

Unfortunately, the timing of the floor situation was a disaster, given that it was now a mere six days before the Winter Solstice. Everyone was gearing up for the holiday season. Bright ribbons and fragrant evergreens festooned doorways and windows. Everywhere, tiny lights shimmered and sparkled like stars. A light snowfall the night before had blanketed everything with a fine frosting of pristine white. The world looked like fairyland.

Fairyland or no, the entire wizarding world was getting into the holiday spirit entirely too enthusiastically, in his considered opinion, not to mention prematurely. Earlier that afternoon following a business lunch, he’d been accosted one time too many by well-wishers worse the wear from drink, and he’d finally had enough, Apparating home in a foul humour. The obvious solution, or so he'd thought, was to work there instead. After all, he had an entire wing of the Manor to himself, a suite of rooms that afforded him complete privacy and freedom of movement. Except… With another groan, he leaned back in his chair, fingertips pressing his temples to massage away the headache that had started to plague him. 

Peace and quiet. Just now, he fervently wished that his house-elves understood the value of that. He would most assuredly have a word with them when he returned home later.  
  
  
Several days earlier  
  
  
Four tiny house-elves sat in a huddle around their small, spare dining table, heads together and talking in low tones. Tipper, Rosie, Demelza, and Clock had lived and worked together at Malfoy Manor for many years, though all but Tipper were still considered young by house-elf standards.

“We gots to do something. Young Master is goin’ to waste hisself away if we doesn’t help him somehow.” That was Tipper, the elder statesman of the group. He’d known Draco since earliest childhood and was genuinely fond of him. The old house-elf had been saddened to observe the mistaken direction that young Draco had chosen years earlier, though it hadn’t been a surprise. Now, fortunately, his precocious charge had grown into a young man who’d rejected those dangerous ideas and chosen a better path. But he was alone far too much. Tipper couldn’t understand why, considering Young Master was handsome, intelligent, and rich, a real catch by any measure. Clearly, Young Master Draco needed saving from himself.

“But what can _we_ do?” Demelza piped up. She was the youngest and smallest, but she had a big heart and a lot of opinions, which she didn’t generally keep to herself.

“Yes, what can we do? We is servants. That is all.” Rosie frowned, folding her arms across her chest in a gesture that was half impatience and half curiosity.

Clock – so called because he took singular delight in announcing the time every quarter hour without fail, no matter who was within earshot – had remained silent all this time, but now he leaned in towards the others. “Somethin’ to get Young Master out of the house, I say.”

They all thought for a bit in silence, their faces masks of deepest concentration. Then abruptly, Rosie brightened. “I know! We must make him very cross.”

“Then we gets sacked,” Demelza muttered. “Stupid, stupid. Don’t wanna get sacked.”

“_Not_ stupid! We does something most everyone else likes. We sings holiday songs! ” Rosie clapped her hands together in delight at the sheer brilliance of her idea. “Young Master will hate it. He will have to leave. Too noisy!”

Tipper had a sudden epiphany then. He looked at the other three with a sly grin almost as wide as his face. “And we fixes it so when he goes, he goes where we wants him to go.”

“And where is that?” Clock asked plaintively. He was feeling a bit confused.

That question stopped the entire conversation cold. They were stumped.

“We will think on it further,” Tipper announced gravely. 

This they all did, but it wasn’t until two days later that the answer made itself known, and in a rather unexpected circumstance. The four house-elves were at the monthly meeting of UPPER (the Union for the Protection and Preservation of Elvish Rights), which coincidentally was being held below stairs at the Manor on this occasion. It was a small gathering, a total of eight members in attendance including the four from the Malfoy household. The other four – Mitzie, Evy, Batts, and Hoppy – came from two other well-to-do households in the neighbourhood. 

Just now, they were in the middle of a heated discussion about the over-involvement of one Hermione Granger in union business. Nobody liked her interference, well meant though it was, but none of them had had the heart to tell her so. 

“We just needs to find a way to make her be not so… so…” Mitzie exclaimed, exasperated. 

“Nosey!” “Bossy!” several of the others chimed in. 

“We doesn’t need her anymore, not like we once did,” Batts observed quietly. He was a circumspect elf, always wanting to see the larger picture rather than rushing off without thinking. “She needs something else to keep her busy now. Or some_one_. Not us. We is fine.”

The look of sudden clarity and excitement that lit Tipper’s wizened little face stopped the discussion in its tracks.

“I has an idea. Listen,” he told them with a conspiratorial smirk, as they put their heads together.

Thus it was that eight little house-elves officially became matchmakers. Their goal: to bring together one brilliant, rather bossy but goodhearted young witch who needed more in her life than a cause, and one equally brilliant, rather curmudgeonly young wizard who was a loner but in serious need of female companionship, no matter what he might think. Both needed a shove in the right direction. UPPER would see that they got it.  
  
  
  


*

  
  
  
  
19 December  
Friday, dusk  
  
  
They were at it again.

With a small groan, Hermione threw down her quill and raked a hand agitatedly through her hair, causing it to leap to attention as if electrified. A moment later, she’d grabbed her cloak, wound a scarf haphazardly around her neck, and run outside, banging the door shut behind her. Where she’d go, she had no clue at the moment. Anywhere she wasn’t forced to endure cheerful, little holiday jingles would be a vast improvement over what she’d had to put up with the last several days. What in Merlin’s name had possessed the UPPER house-elves to plague her this way? It seemed as if every time she turned around, they were outside her window or front door, carolling. Could they possibly think that such relentless noise was making her happy?

Honestly, she thought to herself with a self-righteous huff, they might have considered her feelings with a bit more care and sensitivity. And yes, gratitude. Here she was, going out of her way to make sure that house-elves had a bit of time off for the holidays, intervening on their collective behalves with the most obstinate of old-school, pureblood masters. It was a mission she considered to be almost sacred, one she’d thought about for years, ever since the idea for S.P.E.W. had been born. “Hatched,” Ron had snickered. “Like a rotten egg.” That remark hadn’t gone over particularly well back in fourth year (“Your analogy makes no sense at all, Ronald,” she’d informed him, miffed. “Rotten eggs can’t hatch.” He’d remained cheerfully unrepentant.) and the memory of it still rankled fourteen years later. But apparently, they’d forgotten everything she’d done for them over the years and was still doing, on her own time no less. It just went to show that a lack of appreciation was not the province of humans alone. Magical creatures could be just as inconsiderate. Not one “thank you” for all her efforts, and on top of that, their incessant yodelling was about to drive her right round the twist. She was getting virtually nothing done on the article she was trying so hard to finish. The due date was rapidly approaching, but her brain was now incoherent mush. 

Meanwhile, things were hardly better at Malfoy Manor. Although it was half past four and tea had been served in the calm serenity of the library, along with Draco’s favourite jam-filled shortbread biscuits, the nauseatingly cheery din that had then sprung up from somewhere in the manor had driven him to drink. A good third of a bottle of Ogden’s Old was already gone. The hope had been that if he’d got sufficiently sloshed, his brain would refuse to process the noise, and he would settle into a pleasantly alcohol-fuelled stupor. 

Unfortunately, the strategy had backfired. True, he was well on his way to being seriously inebriated. But he could still hear every bloody note.

“Tipper!” he roared now, standing up far too quickly and swaying on his feet. “Going out! Won’t require any dinner tonight!”

On the floor above, Tipper smiled as he watched his master fling himself into his voluminous woollen cloak, pull on a pair of leather gloves, and disappear out the front door. The latest issue of Wizarding Gents Quarterly – which Tipper had left on the side table in the foyer, open to an advert for the new and very exclusive restaurant that had just opened in Diagon Alley – protruded from a pocket of Master’s cloak. Excellent. He’d taken the bait. Operation Holiday Cheer was well underway.  
  
  
  


*

  
  
  
  
Diagon Alley was a veritable whirlwind of activity on this night. Only two days until the Solstice, and it appeared that the entire wizarding world had realised this in something of a last-minute panic. Throngs of shoppers crowded the narrow streets, gathering in excited knots around the window displays and pushing their way into the shops.

Hermione hurried along, half on her own steam and half pushed nearly off her feet by the wave of pedestrians behind her. Somehow, she’d wound up here, which was the strangest thing, really, considering she hadn't entertained the idea even ten minutes before finding herself in front of Flourish and Blotts. And yet here she was, following an irresistible whisper in her ear.

Her stomach let out an indelicate growl and she realised suddenly how hungry she was. She’d skipped lunch altogether in the vain effort to finish her work before the sun had set. It hadn’t happened. And the endless cups of coffee she’d consumed over the course of the afternoon had only resulted in multiple trips to the loo. They’d done nothing to assuage her hunger. 

Where exactly was she going, anyway? ‘Can’t just wander about in the cold,’ she admonished herself. ‘That’s ridiculous!’ Right, then. Food. Preferably as soon as possible. That would make her feel worlds better. Maybe even to the point where she could get that article finished sometime tonight. But where to go… ?

The crowded pavement was a veritable river of shoving, pushing, impatient humanity, all of them eager to get to their destinations regardless of how many feet they stepped on. 

“Bloody hell! Get _off!_” Draco growled as his toes were painfully trod upon for at least the fourth time. Without thinking, he pushed back against his hapless assailant who stumbled, knocking down a young woman behind him. 

Everything stopped dead, a freeze-frame moment. What to do? Keep walking, leaving the woman on the icy pavement to be helped to her feet by the man he’d shoved? Or do something else entirely?

“Apologies,” he began stiffly, addressing the man he’d pushed. “Accident.”

“Not bloody likely, mate,” his victim muttered. Aloud, his reply was a curt “Yeah, okay.” Then he strode off, shaking his head in disgust.

Rude and totally lacking in class. Typical. Draco turned to the woman still sitting on the ground. She was rubbing an ankle in obvious pain, a fall of windblown, chestnut hair obscuring her face. Then she looked up, pushing the hair out of her eyes.

Granger?! 

“What the hell are _you_ doing here?” he blurted out. 

Hermione pursed her lips in annoyance, one eyebrow raised. “Fancy. A witch in Diagon Alley. I do come here from time to time, you know. Is my very presence here still so bizarre to you?”

“Yes. I mean no! No, it isn’t. Not anymore. I just wasn’t expecting to see you, that’s all. It’s been a while.” Draco’s usual aplomb had deserted him momentarily. Then he remembered his manners and quickly stuck out a hand to help her to her feet. 

“Thanks!” she muttered, standing and then wincing as she tried to put weight on her left foot. “Oh, fuck! I think I may have twisted my ankle.”

Goody-two-shoes, stick-up-the-arse Granger swearing? Draco turned his face away, barely containing a snicker. It had been years since he’d seen her. Apparently, she’d grown up in ways he would never have predicted. He found himself intrigued.

“Look, I was wondering,” he began a bit awkwardly, offering an arm for her to lean on. “Were you going somewhere important? Because I was just on my way to dinner at that new place. Least I can do is take you out for a meal to make amends. What do you say?”

It was an invitation that certainly had its merits, surprising though it was. First, of course, she was absolutely famished by now. Even an old boot sounded appetizing at the moment. And the menu at the new eatery – very well advertised since its recent opening – hardly featured old boots. No doubt the meal she’d have there would be marvellous. Second, he had caused her an injury. Not a serious one, she had to admit, being honest. Nevertheless, a nice meal to make up for the accident would not go amiss. Finally, the truth was, even Malfoy’s company was preferable to dining alone.

“Well… all right. I suppose that would be okay. Thank you,” she murmured, cheeks rosy with the cold and a tinge of embarrassment.

“Right then. Let’s go.” He tucked her arm through his, feeling curiously light-hearted all of a sudden, and they set off.

The Marble Arch was cosy and intimate. An imposing stone hearth dominated one wall; there, a large joint of meat was roasting on a spit Spelled to turn itself at intervals. Ponderous oak beams traversed the ceiling. Tables were covered in crisp, snow-white linen, each with a white candle flickering in a tall glass holder; crystal stemware, bone china and silver gleamed in the firelight. On each table, a single white rose stayed perpetually fresh and fragrant in a slender, glass vase. It was rustic elegance at its finest.

It was an advanced bookings-only sort of place, and Draco had made his escape from the Manor in such haste that he hadn’t even thought about such an eventuality. At times like this, however, being a Malfoy had its perks. Quickly, he pulled himself together and summoned The Look.

“Terribly sorry not to have Owled ahead. Nevertheless, I was hoping you might accommodate me and my dining companion,” he said smoothly, adding, “I expect such an accommodation could reap significant benefits for The Marble Arch.” 

The maître’d took a good look at the well-dressed young man, his pale hair gleaming in the firelight, and knew instantly that there certainly were benefits to be had from bending over backwards for any member of the Malfoy family. The young man’s father had been here for luncheon only two days earlier. It would not do to make an enemy of Lucius Malfoy or anyone connected to him.

“But of course,” he purred reassuringly. “Please come this way, Mr. Malfoy. I happen to have a lovely table near the fire, if that will suit. Perfect for a chilly night like this one.”

“Yes, that will do very nicely,” Draco replied. 

They followed the maître’d, Draco taking Hermione’s elbow to assist her as they manoeuvred their way through the roomful of diners, laughter and the clink of cutlery on china punctuating the air like music.

Seated at last, Hermione sighed deeply. It was good to get off her sore ankle at last. Now that she was able to relax a bit, she took a good, long look at her unexpected dinner companion.

At twenty-eight, he’d filled out very nicely. No longer reed-thin and scrawny, he was now leanly muscled. His pale hair was longer now, falling carelessly in front of his eyes. His jawline was clean and sharp, his eyes a penetrating grey. That hadn’t changed. No, wait. Actually, there was one difference. At school, their expression when he looked at her was invariably scornful and dismissive. The gaze he fixed on her now was merely thoughtful, curious. 

Draco knew he was being assessed, but he was busy doing some assessing himself. Granger had turned out all right, surprisingly. In fact, better than all right, if he were being truthful. The hair, for starters. It was still very full, but now it was sleek and silken. What had she done to it, he wondered, and what would a lock of it feel like between his fingers? 

And then, there was the rest of her. Large, lustrous hazel eyes were fringed with long, dark lashes sweeping pale, lightly freckled cheeks. Those eyes were looking at him quite candidly now. He longed to know, suddenly, what she was thinking. Her mouth looked softly pliant. And gods, she’d become rather… Draco struggled to find exactly the right words for what he was seeing. Rather… _womanly_, he decided. No longer the flat-chested little girl he remembered. Holy hell, where had she been seventh year? Oh yes. She hadn’t been at school at all that last year. And in sixth year, he’d been far too preoccupied to even notice if or how she’d changed – although thinking back now, he recalled seeing her briefly at Slughorn’s Yule party. She’d looked damned fetching in that red frock. He’d definitely taken note. Now, though, she had real curves. And a pair of rather inviting tits, he decided, if that clingy jumper were any indication. She was beautiful. 

Just at the moment, she was frowning. “Malfoy, you don’t have to pay for my meal. You’re not obligated in any way. I would feel loads better if –” 

He shook his head. “No worries. Just relax and enjoy it.” He paused, seeking to redirect the conversation. There was so much he wanted to know about her, suddenly. “So. Tell me about yourself. It’s been what? Ten years?”

She calculated quickly. “Yes, that’s right. Well, I’m a freelance journalist. Perhaps you’ve seen my articles? I write for The Prophet, Witch Weekly, and occasionally, Wizarding Gents Quarterly. Actually, WGQ is my favourite to write for. They give me the most latitude. I can really stretch my muscles there. And I think they like the idea of a woman contributor to the magazine. Helps to dispel the image they have of a publication that objectifies women, which isn’t the case anymore. What about you?”

Draco sighed deeply. “I work in the family business, no great surprise. I write too, as a matter of fact. But it’s PR stuff. Nothing as creative as what you do, I’m sure.”

“Oh, I bet that’s not true. PR writing can be very creative. As a freelancer, I’ve certainly done my share of it. I have bills to pay, you see.” Hermione gave a light, rueful laugh. “The wonderful world of freelancing. Can’t afford to be too choosy.”

She actually understood. Surprising, and somehow, oddly gratifying too.

Just then, the waiter came around to take their order. Neither had even glanced at the menu yet. Getting reacquainted had been far more interesting.

“Allow me to suggest tonight’s special,” the waiter told them with the smooth assurance of someone who’d memorised every last offering on the menu and tried nearly all of them. “The chicken Milanese is delightful. We serve it with a lemony cream sauce over whipped potatoes. You won’t find it prepared this way anywhere else.”

Hermione’s mouth was watering at the mere description of the dish. Eagerly, she nodded her head when Draco glanced at her for an answer. 

“That sounds excellent. Two of the chicken Milanese. Salad?” He glanced at Hermione again.

“Salad sounds lovely,” she murmured. 

“And a bottle of your best Riesling.” He paused for a moment, reconsidering. “Or would you prefer something else?”

“Riesling's fine,” Hermione replied. "One of my favourites, actually."

A couple of minutes later, the waiter was back with a chilled bottle, which he poured out with a flourish for both of them to taste.

“Well,” she said, raising her glass after he’d left them alone. “Cheers, Malfoy!”

“Cheers!” he echoed and then flashed her a wry grin. “Hang on. Do you suppose we might finally use our given names after all these years?”

“I’d like that,” Hermione said quietly, smiling back. “Cheers… Draco.”

“Cheers, Hermione.”

They touched glasses, the crystal stemware giving off a silvery peal. 

Their food arrived before very long, and for a while, both were preoccupied with savouring their meal, so conversation was minimal. Eventually, though, feeling fairly sated, they came up for air.

“Can I ask you a question?” Draco said abruptly, breaking the silence. 

She nodded, taking a sip of her wine. “Ask away.”

“Did you always know what was right? I mean, when we were at school. When things started… happening. Bad things. Did you always feel really sure of yourself? Like you just _knew_, and there was no question?”

Hermione paused before answering. She frowned thoughtfully.

“Mostly, yes. Not always. On the big things? Yes, for sure. But sometimes, some of us didn’t always agree on what to do or how to do it. What about you?”

“No. I mean, I _thought _I knew. I believed I was doing the right thing for my family. The only thing. But deep down, I never felt really sure. Of anything. And I kept thinking, if this is right, why do I feel so shitty?” He sighed deeply, sitting back in his chair and raising his glass to his lips for a swallow."

"In the end, you didn't really have a choice," Hermione said softly.

Draco stared at her, incredulous. "No, I didn't. At least, I thought I didn't at the time. You know about that?"

She nodded. "Harry saw what happened that night. He told us everything. Did you really? Feel shitty, I mean. I didn’t know.” 

Draco's smile was grim. “Nobody knew. Well, except my mother, and even then, it was only what she intuited. But I could tell she saw through the front I was putting up.” An uneasy moment passed. “Look, Granger... Hermione, that is... there's something I want to say. Should have said it years ago, really.” Taking a fortifying gulp of liquid courage, he laughed slightly, a painful sound. "The thing is..." His words tumbled out in a rush. "The thing is, I’m sorry. For everything.”

There was an awkward silence. Finally, still gazing down at her hands folded in her lap, Hermione cleared her throat.

"I… don’t know what to say,” she murmured. 

“You don’t have to say anything. I'd probably never have told you if we hadn’t run into each other tonight. After ten years?” He shook his head. "But I do. Apologise, I mean.

“Thank you. It means a lot, even after ten years.” On impulse, Hermione reached out, lightly brushing Draco’s hand with her fingertips; then, suddenly self-conscious, she drew her hand away, letting it fall back into her lap.

Draco stared at her hand on his, nonplussed, and with something akin to regret as she withdrew it again. As unexpectedly enjoyable as this entire evening had been, her gesture had been the icing on the cake, though a short-lived one. Suddenly, he found himself wanting the warmth of the contact again. And maybe even something more.

Getting past the awkwardness was the first priority, however. 

“Well,” he said, his voice unnaturally hearty, “what about something for pudding, then? Shall we indulge?”

Hermione laughed, the tension broken. “I’m game if you are!”

Gesturing to the waiter, Draco escaped behind the menu for a minute, as the knots in his stomach dissipated. “I love anything chocolate,” he began, perusing the sinfully rich choices. “I believe I’ll have the mousse.”

“A berry tartlet, please,” Hermione sighed, her hand on her midsection. She giggled, and it was a musical sound. “You’ll have to roll me out of here, though.”

“I believe I can manage that,” he laughed, and glanced up at the waiter. “Two coffees as well.” He poured the remainder of the wine into their glasses, raising his. “Cheers. And thanks.”

“What for?” she asked, confused. “I’m the one who should be thanking you for this lovely meal.”

“For the pleasure – and sanity – of your company,” he told her. “You’ve no idea what I had to escape from tonight. An absolute nightmare in my own house!”

“Hah, well, it can’t be anywhere near as bad as what drove me out of my flat!”

“Care to make a small wager on that?” Draco grinned slyly.

Hermione’s eyes narrowed. “What's the bet?”

It was a nervy idea, granted. It was also the perfect guarantee of seeing Hermione again. He couldn't lose. Taking a deep breath, he went for it. “A date. A real one. For New Year’s Eve. Winner chooses the venue.” 

A long moment passed while Hermione considered. “Deal,” she replied finally, looking curiously smug. “Now explain.”

Piece of cake. Draco smiled triumphantly. “I –” he began.  
  
  
_Fa la la_  
_Join our song_  
_Shorter days will now grow long!_  
_Sun is old_  
_Songs are bold_  
_Solstice blessings ever strong!_  
  
  
_Fa la la_  
_Happy sight_  
_Warm beside the firelight_  
_Dance and sing_  
_Bells will ring_  
_Toast we now the Solstice night!_  
  
  
Oh NO. Not here too! Draco and Hermione groaned in unison and then stared at each other, shocked. 

“THIS is what I had to escape!” he cried, smacking his palm against his forehead. “My house-elves have been sending me round the bend with their endless carolling! I hear them in the morning and when I go to sleep. I hear them beneath windows and outside doors. I even hear them when I’m in the bath! I could swear they've even Spelled objects in my house to record them and then replay it! It’s driving me mad!”

Hermione stared at him, wide-eyed. Finally, she found her voice. “Oh gods, me too! If I hear one more holiday carol, I’ll…”

“You have house-elves?” Draco asked, surprised. “_You?_”

“No, of course not, but I work with UPPER. The Union for the Protection and Preservation of Elvish Rights,” she explained. 

Draco rolled his eyes, mouth twitching. It figured.

“Yes, well,” she continued a bit defensively, though she couldn’t help smiling now too, “I make sure they aren’t taken advantage of. They’re the ones doing all the carolling outside my flat! It’s been awful!”

Before Draco could offer his thoughts on all this, the carolling became louder; then diners began applauding as eight small faces appeared outside the restaurant’s frosty windows. All eight were grinning as they sang. Their job was done. It had been a tremendous success. Young Master and Miss Hermione was having dinner together. They was smiling. They was happy. They was IN LOVE. (That last was from Demelza, who was promptly shushed by the others. Right now, it was enough that Master Draco and Miss Hermione were finally out of the house and together in this romantic place. Surely, they could take it from here. After all, he was holding her hand!)

And if they couldn’t, well… Tipper happened to have an old elvish songbook just loaded with music they could learn in a trice. Songs for every occasion.  
  
  
  
  
  
  


FIN

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to my fabulous beta, mister_otter! Wishing you a glass of holiday champagne and some sinfully decadent chocolate cake!
> 
> Thanks, too, to everyone who nominated me! Advent has always been one of my favourite fests, and I love writing for it!


End file.
